Carl Hiaasen – Double Whammy

“Catching bass is not easy,” Dickie Lockhart said, his own anger welling, fueled by a mental image of his beloved Ellen O’Something bouncing on top of this flabby rich pig. “Catching bass is not a sure thing.”

Weeb said, “I understand, Dickie.” He had dealt with angry drunks before and knew that caution was the best strategy. He didn’t like the fishing rod poking into his tummy, but realized that only his pride was in danger. “Overall, I think you do a hell of a job with Fish Fever, I really do.”

“Then why do you treat me like shit?”

“Now, I pay you very well,” Weeb said.

With his wrist Dickie Lockhart started whipping the rod back and forth, filling the room with sibilant noise. Weeb had a hunch it would hurt like hell if the tip thwacked across his bare flesh, and he edged back a step.

“I heard,” said Dickie Lockhart, “that you been talking to Ed Spurling.”

“Where did you hear that?” A new look came into the minister’s eyes, a look of nervousness.

“Some boys that fish with Ed. Said Ed told ’em that the Outdoor Christian Network wanted to buy his TV show.”

Weeb said, “Dickie, that’s ridiculous. We’ve got the best bass show in all America. Yours. We don’t need another.”

“That’s what I said, but those boys that fish with Ed told me something else. They said Ed was bragging that you promised to make him number one within two years. Within two years, they said, Fish Fever would be out of production.”

These redneck assholes, Weeb was thinking, what a grapevine they had. It was too bad Ed Spurling couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut.

“Dickie,” Weeb said, “somebody’s pulling your leg. I never met Spurling in my life. I don’t blame you for being upset, buddy, but I swear you’ve got nothing to worry about. Look, of all the pro bass anglers in the world, who did I ask to do the promotion footage for Lunker Lakes? Who? You, Dickie, ’cause you’re the best. All of us at OCN feel the same way: you’re our number-one man.”

Lockhart lowered the fishing rod. His eyes were muddy, his arms like lead. If he didn’t pass out soon he’d need another bourbon.

Soothingly the Reverend Charles Weeb said, “Don’t worry, son, none of what you heard is true.”

“Sure glad to hear it,” Dickie said, “because there’s no telling what would happen if I found out otherwise. No telling. Remember the guy from the zoning board down in Lauderdale, the one you told me to take fishing that time? Man, he had some wild stories about that Lunker Lagoon.”

“Lunker Lakes,” Weeb said tersely.

“He says he got himself a brand-new swimming pool, thanks to you. With a sauna in the shallow end!”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Dickie broke into a daffy grin. “And I’m trying to imagine what your faithful flock might do if they found out their shepherd was double-boffing a couple of sweet young girls from the church. I’m wondering about that, Reverend Weeb.”

“I get the point.”

“Do you really?” Dickie Lockhart wielded the fly rod swordlike and, with an artful flick, popped the knot on Charlie Weeb’s bath towel, which dropped to his ankles.

“Aw, what a cute little thing,” Dickie said with a wink. “Cute as a junebug.”

Weeb flushed. He couldn’t believe that the tables had turned so fast, that he had so carelessly misjudged this nasty little cracker bastard. “What do you want?” he asked Dickie Lockhart.

“A new contract. Five years, no cancellation. Plus ten percent of first-run syndication rights. Don’t look so sad, Reverend Weeb. I’ll make it easy for you: you don’t have to announce it until after I win the tournament this week. I’ll show up at the press conference with the trophy, put on a good show.”

“All right,” Weeb said, cupping his hands over his privates, “what else?”

“I want the budget doubled to two thousand per show.”

“Fifteen hundred tops.”

“Fine,” Dickie said, “I’m not a greedy man.”

“Anything more?” asked Reverend Weeb.

“Yeah, go get Ellen and tell her I’m giving her a ride home.”

Lake Maurepas, where the Cajun Invitational Bass Classic was to be held, was a bladder-shaped miniature of the immense Lake Pontchartrain. Located off Interstate 55 northwest of New Orleans, the marshy and bass-rich Maurepas was connected to its muddy mother at Pass Manchac, a few miles south of the town of Hammond. It was there that R. J. Decker and Skink took a room at a Quality Court motel. At the Sportsman’s Hideout Marina they rented a small aluminum johnboat with a fifteen-horsepower outboard, and told the lady at the cash register they’d be going out at dusk. The lady looked suspicious until Skink introduced himself as the famous explorer Philippe Cousteau, and explained he was working on a documentary about the famous Louisiana eel spawn, which only took place in the dead of night. Yes, the lady at the cash register nodded, I’ve heard of it. Then she asked for Philippe’s autograph and Skink earnestly replied (in a marvelous French accent) that for such a beautiful woman, a mere autograph would never do. Instead he promised to name a new species of mollusk in her honor.